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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24792724">Twelve Crows</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedXXI/pseuds/RedXXI'>RedXXI</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesia, Ancient magic, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Curse Breaking, Dark, Feral Jaskier | Dandelion, Friends to Lovers, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Illnesses, M/M, Necromancy, Playing fast and loose with magic systems, Plotty, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death, ciri has a witcher a bard and a sorceress for parents, im back, jaskier is sick and tired of curses, nothing is at all what it appears to be</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 10:35:00</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>16,994</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24792724</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/RedXXI/pseuds/RedXXI</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the Continent succumbs to a cursed blight. </p><p>One would think that the very man capable of lifting the curse would also be blessed with immunity, but alas, Destiny's never been so kind as to smile upon her subjects.</p><p>Jaskier's unlucky enough to catch the blight... and also unlucky enough to find himself at the center of a spell strong enough to cause the Continent to fall into ruin.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon &amp; Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Triss Merigold &amp; Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>104</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. bad luck, loss, and death</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>loss, death, unplanned catastrophic change</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Geralt and Ciri find themselves in a town just north of Vizima. It’s but a mere speck on the map, but Geralt’s sure he’s passed through this stretch of woods enough times to know it well, but not often enough to be recognized by whatever drunken townsmen may haunt the streets in the dead of night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The threat of being recognized quickly fades when it becomes apparent that the carnage in the south extends farther up into the continent that Geralt had anticipated. They pass by the withered bodies of peasants and nobles and animals alike, scattered and weaved along the burnt crops and foul waters of the rivers and tertiaries that wind through. There’s no creature Geralt can think of that would leave this level of destruction in its wake, but he investigates anyway, keeping Ciri high up and safe on Roach’s back and keeping his careful distance from the carnage. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Geralt were any less well traveled, he’d postulate Nilfgaardians riding through and tearing village after village to the ground in their conquest. But this was no conquest— there’s no blood, no sign of a struggle. The animals are dead as well, merchant carts undisturbed and pockets unlooted. Those that died armed stayed that way— swords deep in scabbards and knives still hidden in their boots. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>If this is a disease, Geralt wants to stay as safe as possible. Not a single second passes on the road when he forgets Ciri’s very real humanity and the multitude of vulnerabilities that he must account for. Ill-prepared food leading to a week or more of pain and suffering, unheated river water leading to an even longer period of illness, exhaustion leading to a simple mistake, a mere stubbed toe or rolled ankle stopping travel all together— </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It hadn’t been hard for him to fall back into the routine of thinking for a human alongside him, and it’s even easier while traveling through Jaskier’s usual haunt in the space between Vizima and Rinde, just east of Oxenfurt. But the longer they travel, the more inns they skip and rivers they avoid, Geralt finds himself completely out of his element. Ciri’s exhaustion is different from the other humans he’d ever worked or traveled with, because he finds himself making the continued mistake of forgetting that not only is she a child, she’s entirely unused to the rough ways that define Geralt’s own way of living. A few years will allow her to become accustomed, Geralt’s sure of that, but barely a month has passed since they were brought together, and Geralt’s not willing to push their luck. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The town they settle on has a passable inn visible from the road, and the people within it seem more or less unaffected by whatever’s been laying waste to seemingly every other place in the south. The streets are still deserted, but the roads are clear and the sickening scent of rot that seemed to linger above every body of water was surprisingly absent. They meander through the village, watching quietly as the townspeople wearily watch them back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No bodies means no invasion,” Ciri points out quietly, and Geralt silently agrees. No death and destruction means no Nilfgaard. And no death and destruction also means that the town, if in need of a Witcher’s services, could afford to hire him— as it is, they’re hard pressed for coins. Geralt’s unsure if the amount he’s entrusted to Ciri will even ensure that both of them will have a comfortable place to sleep for the night. Otherwise, the only downside that Geralt can work out in settling here for the night is that they will find themselves one day closer to the slow encroach of winter. He knows of the dangers of waiting too long to cross the path into Kaer Morhen, knows of the panic that’s gripped him one too many times when he thought himself trapped in the mountains but unable to cross the frozen mountain pass. He doesn't want this for Ciri, but he also doesn’t want her sick from the exhaustion and exposure, and he feels the way Roach lurches forward in an overtired crawl. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>A witcher and a child make for a strange sight, but the people in this town seem to be receptive to their presence. Geralt makes note to ask after the other villages and the deaths they’ve seen on the road. They pass a closed down clothing shop, and he makes another note to look further into it— Ciri’s in desperate need of new traveling clothes, and possibly some heavier cloaks to protect her from the harsher northern winter. And, hopefully, he can spare some coin to buy Ciri the soft balm he’d seen Jaskier use on his hands and lips to keep them from cracking with the cold. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>They’ve nearly reached the inn and stables when Geralt’s flagged down by an awfully sickly man with red blotches dotting the clammy skin around his beady eyes. He rushes up in front of them and gives an uncoordinated bow. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We had the sense to move the corpses to the woods,” the man begins inexplicably, glancing worriedly at Ciri with a look in his eye that sets Geralt on edge. “But the monsters moved in closer, still. I think they smell death in the air.” If Geralt could smell it, which he most certainly could now that the man’s mentioned it, then the monsters were undoubtedly drawn. He’s unsure of how he’d missed it before— perhaps he’d been too caught up in relief from whatever that other foul smell had been. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And what is the cause of this death?” Always an important question, when both monsters and dead humans are involved. “We’ve seen it all along the roads, here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A plague, no doubt, but I fear that word is too kind, Master Witcher. This here is a </span>
  <em>
    <span>blight</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and it’ll spread its rot across the continent until the very last.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Blight is an appropriate word. Very fitting, considering the way even the trees seem curl forward on themselves while they waste away. But the pudgy man before him seems to be one for dramatics if the wild glint in his eye is anything to tell by, and Geralt’s not sure how much of his word he can trust. The man’s eyes shoot up to Ciri again, and Roach tosses her head in agitation. Geralt immediately sees the benefit of ending this interaction as soon as he can. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Tell me about the monster,” he asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve not seen it, but it stays around the bodies. The men we sent to take the next round of dead out to the wood never returned.” Which means the monster could be </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but Geralt doesn’t waste the energy to explain his ideas to this clueless man. Instead, he nods his understanding while the man fishes to show Geralt the hefty purse in his pocket. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll be back with proof of my kill later tonight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will be in the inn all evening, Master Witcher. You find me by the name of Dalibor of—” Roach interrupts him with an impatient snort and stomp of her foot, but the man’s response is much too exaggerated for Geralt’s liking. No doubt Roach feels the tension in the air just as Geralt does, so he motions for Ciri to take control of Roach’s reigns and turns in the direction the man had gestured to when he mentioned the bodies. He’s faced with a dark and menacing wood, and while Ciri may have trouble navigating, Geralt’s sure he’ll do well enough for both of them. His armor’s new, his swords are sharp in their recent disuse. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do we know about the monster?” Geralt grunts while they break the treeline and head into the forest, and Ciri hums her acknowledgment. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It was near the town’s dead. Secluded in the woods, probably.” He’d learned very quickly that the fastest way to teach Ciri was to let her experience the situation. If she’s to survive as he does, she must know which questions to ask and what conclusions to draw from the answers that she receives. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So what category does that put it in?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Necrophages,” Ciri answers quickly in her high, sharp voice. “It’s most likely a ghoul. Or ghouls.” And Ciri’s right; this is a tale Geralt’s heard many times before, and he’d been sure to impart whatever knowledge he knew to Ciri during their weeks on the road— in times like these, necrophages multiplied like mosquitos in water. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The danger for you fighting them is…?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Infection,” she answers in that same sure voice. “It’s always infection, but it’s best to be very careful with these. Geralt, you’ve asked me these same questions a thousand times.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not quite a thousand, but Geralt’s sure that he’s gone over this with her enough. Still… “Repetition will help you remember.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt catches the smell of the mass grave in a snatch of wind and steers them toward it. He finds himself unsuccessful in concealing the way his nose wrinkles at the oppressive smell. Behind him, Ciri’s breath grows labored, and he can hear her attempting to breathe through her mouth to stave off the worst of it. Still, they’re downwind, and even though the smell’s been strong for Geralt for some time now, he’s sure that it’s positively repulsive to Ciri. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stay here,” he orders, and isn’t surprised when Ciri easily agrees. “If I’m not back in time,” and Ciri should know by now how long a job like this would take Geralt, “take Roach back to the town.” They have another contingency plan in the unfortunate circumstance of Geralt’s death, but Ciri hadn’t been receptive to that kind of talk, and Geralt knows better than to bring it up at a time like this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He grabs whatever potions he thinks will be of use from his saddlebag and moves forward into the woods for a few paces, just far enough to lose Ciri and Roach’s heartbeats and breathing. He comes upon the clearing not a moment later, and is met with a sight that he’d been unprepared to see. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The empty streets are explained by the fact that nearly all of the town’s population is here in this clearing, clearly arranged in what was first meant to be a small gravesite. It’s places like these that attract monsters like iron filings to magnets, but humans and monsters alike keep their same behaviors despite always receiving the same outcomes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Still, the scene in the clearing is a disturbing one, and through the too strong smell and somehow more sickening sound of whatever creatures have made their home here, Geralt struggles to listen out for a ghoul or whatever other necrophagic creature would be lurking in the darkness. There’s a quietly gurgling stream nearby, no doubt flowing with the same poisoned water as in the rivers, and Geralt tunes the sound out as he moves further into the clearing. The silence is disturbing and off putting.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In his many years of witchering, he’s seen many situations go wrong in ways even the most imaginative would have trouble believing. This quickly climbs his list of outrageous situations, starting with the too-close gurgling snarl of a rotfiend to his right. It’s easy work, at first, to spin and catch it on his sword, but the ten rotfiends that he can now count by their heartbeats alone change that. He whirls to the sight of a devourer and it’s accompanying hoard of cousins, all snarling and gargling over the remains of the townspeople. The sight is enough to startle him into action, and he barely manages to escape another violent swing to his stomach. He rolls easily out of the way, fells the two nearest beasts, and begins to work out a plan of attack. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Those that were close had bounded back at the deathly cries of their comrades, and they circle him now like rabid wolves, waiting for an opening to fall in upon him. He makes sure to dispatch the closest rotfiends first quickly, staying far out of reach of their swinging arms and snarling mouths. A poorly timed dodge finds himself falling back into some of the rotting churned earth, and he’s back on his feet just in time to feel the horrible sting of rotfiend claws sinking into his side. He’s just fast enough to escape the next attack, but the creatures are unrelenting in their assault. Two more rotfiends fall on Geralt’s silver sword, and the devourer fills the clearing with a gurgling roar before Geralt moves in close to cut that one down, too. The fight ends quickly, after that, and Geralt finds himself standing once again in a silent clearing, carefully ignoring the pulsating pain in his ribs and stomach. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s a moonless night, and Geralt’s not terribly inclined to waste time peering through the canopy above him to get a gauge on how long he’s spent fighting for his life in these woods. He collects as many trophies from the bodies as he can reasonably carry and picks his way through the underbrush with relative ease. Ciri and Roach are gone, but he can smell them strongly enough to know that they only left recently. And unlike the human that Geralt had become accustomed to traveling with, Ciri possesses enough common sense to ease Geralt's worry as he navigates his way to the inn. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The silence that greets him when he bursts inside isn’t unusual, but the complete lack of people inside is. He can smell Ciri, knows that she must have obtained a room, and can hear someone behind the counter of the bar. The man who’d hired him for this job is nowhere to be seen, and there’s an acute flash of anger toiling in his gut at his absence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The barmaid pokes her head above the counter in the same moment that Ciri appears at the top of the staircase, surprise and fear coloring her features. Geralt sends her what he hopes to be a reassuring glance before turning to the sturdy woman staring at him with an indecipherable expression. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A man named Dalibor—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“A liar and a cheat, that one,” she’s quick to respond, and Geralt’s willing to hazard that she’d known who he was here for. “I assume he employed you for the ghoul problem.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wasn’t ghouls,” he carefully ignores the way Ciri’s heartbeat picks up in surprise. “You had a devourer and about ten rotfiends.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The woman’s eyes widen in surprise before she ducks under the counter and produces a bursting coin purse. “Noble met his end a little ways down the road,” she says by way of explanation. “I assumed he wouldn’t have too much use for this.” She slides it across the table, and Geralt snatches it up and tosses it to Ciri, who’s inched her way close enough to probably see the damage done to Geralt’s side even in the low light. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Geralt, your side—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll treat it upstairs.” And if the wound’s not too disgusting by now, he hopes Ciri will learn something from watching him. He knows that she’s probably stabled Roach and brought the necessary bags inside. A few potions and stitches and he’ll be ready enough to ask about the blight, and even more about the fate of the mages at Sodden. He wastes no time in turning to pull himself up the stairs, Ciri hot on his heels. She directs him to the small room she’d procured and instructs him to sit down in front of the fire. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>With relative ease, Ciri retrieves a pot of water from where it had been cooling beside the stove and pours it over Geralt’s bare side, careless of the mess it makes on the floor. She hums in sympathy, but Geralt bares the pain with only minimal difficulty. She passes him one of his bags, and he digs through to find a needle and thread, which Ciri quickly drenches in one of Geralt’s healing potions, careful to keep the liquid away from her own skin. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ciri watches as he steadily stitches the three scratches on his side with slow efficiency, and takes her guesses at each potion’s purpose while under Geralt’s carefully assessing eye. In the tavern downstairs, Geralt can hear the barmaid strike up conversation with a townsman, starting with the state of the crops and moving into discussing the blight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It hit Oxenfurt the hardest, the townsman says, and his voice is nearly too low and gravelly for Geralt to hear. It swept in from the western shores and spread. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Anyone with a shred of sense would head north and try to tough it out through the winter,” the man rasps, and the barmaid replies with a noncommittal hum. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is there nothing we can do about the blight?” Ciri asks quietly, but the proximity of her voice combined with Geralt’s careful focus on the happenings downstairs, Geralt starts and pulls the needle through a bit of skin. Ciri hisses in surprise, and Geralt hurriedly waves her off. She still hovers worriedly by his side, and he recognizes her worry as something deep and not easily assuaged. He wonders if she’d heard the conversation happening downstairs, but dismisses the thought. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, not unless you want to catch your own death. We’ll steer clear and head to Kaer Morhen.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What about Yennefer?” Geralt shakes his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know she has the sense to steer clear, too. She can take care of herself.” It would be offensive to Ciri’s kind sensibilities to hear that the blight is truly not Geralt’s problem. His only concern is Ciri’s health, and possibly Yennefer’s. If humans are drinking from the obviously poisoned rivers and festering wells and eating from clearly diseased animals, that’s their prerogative. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Judging by Ciri’s strained expression, she’d heard the dismissal in Geralt’s voice. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look,” Geralt tries again, “if all is still the same as I remember, there is a man in Kaer Morhen who is very old and knowledgeable. If the mages haven’t yet discovered the cause of this, it’s possible that he will have some knowledge.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And we’ll stop in Rinde?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll stop in Rinde,” he agrees, though the memories he has of that particular town are sour. An errant thought has Geralt hoping that the senseless man he’d know Jaskier to be has scraped up enough self preservation to steer clear of the worst of the blight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There are scholars in Oxenfurt!” Another voice calls from below while Geralt reaches for the clean bandages in Ciri’s hand.  “They’re working to find a cure!” He wraps his side quickly and tightly and stands, pulling on a fresh tunic and rolling out the stiffness that had set in while he’d worked. He tilts his head toward the door, gestures for Ciri to follow, and together they make their way back down the stairs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What of the mages?” Geralt asks when he’s sure he’s in earshot of the people in the tavern, and he finds that the man who’d entered is of the scholarly sort. His clothes are only just fine enough to stand out in the dim, run-down room, and he puffs up in indignation when he lays eyes on Geralt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The mages scattered after the battle at Sodden,” he says, “everyone knows that.” And Geralt’s sure the man had added that last bit on for purposes of self importance. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If the mages are gone, I’m willing to bet the ‘healers’ at Oxenfurt aren’t better off!” The gravel-voiced man speaks up, loud and clear for the first time since he’d entered. “I don’t see that stuck up lot accomplishing anything, not with all their alchemists and professors sick with the blight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And the rivers around here are getting to be the worst of all!” The barmaid says directly to Geralt. “Only safe drink is ale— no safe way to bathe, not even if you heat the water.” Beside him, Ciri stiffens in fear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Did you bathe?” He asks her, and she shakes her head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I saved the water for you.” </span>
  <em>
    <span>Good</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks. He has no evidence to explain, but he’s willing to bet that his mutations will give him at least a little bit of protection. If the water’s poisoned even this far north, they’ll be hard pressed to stay fed and healthy on their travel north. Still, the water that Ciri had heated was absent of the foul scent that Geralt’s coming to associate with the blight, so he supposes that a discerning nose and good judgment will keep them safe.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dumb fellow came through not two weeks ago,” the barmaid continues, “told us boiling the water would keep us safe. Fat lot of good that did him. Made a big show of drinking </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>bating in the water, too.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened to him?” Ciri asks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He died, of course. Found him just upstairs, twisted up like he’d been attacked from the inside out. Nasty sight, even nastier to clean up. He was right about the water, even the animals have been dropping like flies. Not even sure the crops are safe to eat, not with the way the soil’s smelling like rot and death. You two are coming from the south?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt eyes her carefully before he nods, but she doesn’t seem to care much about their origins or destination. She’s merely asking after what he’d seen. “Any better off down that way?” He thinks about the way that this was the best town they’ve seen in weeks. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Is it worse up north?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No way for me to tell. All I’ve heard is the same— monsters crawling through every town, dead crops and dead animals. ‘You’d think each blade of grass had become some sort of creature,’” she says as if she were reading a quote. “We had a musician fellow come down from the north just last night carrying tales of what he’d seen. I’d half expected him to spin another one of his tunes, but it seems that disease isn’t a good muse. But if you’re asking after the north, you’d best talk to him before you travel on.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The barmaid’s strange talkativity had initially caught Geralt off guard, but, all things considered, it makes sense. He suspects her hospitality has to do with the state of her town, and possibly Ciri’s quiet yet reassuring presence. It could also be due to the lingering effects of Jaskier’s seemingly immortal witcher rebrand. But while the barmaid’s made him suspicious of her intentions, she’s also managed to sufficiently whet his curiosity. He almost finds himself asking after the man she’d mentioned, if only to have all the information needed to ensure he and Ciri travel the safest path to the north, when a surprised shout carries from upstairs followed by the sound of a wooden tankard falling to the ground. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The barmaid hurries around and up the stairs, shouting after what Geralt assumes to be another worker, most likely a servant. There’s a beat of silence interjected with the sounds of a struggle, and Geralt climbs the staircase to investigate. </span>
</p><p><span>The “fellow” is none other than Jaskier, and the servant and barmaid are desperately trying to help him from the ground. When the servant shoots Geralt a panicked look, he waves them aside and takes the bard in his arms. </span><span><br/>
</span> <span>“His room?”</span></p><p>
  <span>“At the end of the hall,” the servant answers, and Geralt calls after Ciri while he pulls Jaskier into the room and dumps him unceremoniously on the bed. If Geralt were a mere human, he would assume that Jaskier had partaken in more than enough ale. But he’s suspiciously absent of the cloying scent of alcohol, and his desperate scrambling speaks to exhaustion rather than intoxication. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is the fellow,” the barmaid says somewhat uselessly, and shows herself out after it’s clear that the situation’s been sorted. Geralt gives her his thanks, carefully avoiding Jaskier’s assessing gaze, and the woman steps out of the way to allow Ciri to crowd into the small room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door closes with a solid click, and Jaskier leans back on the bed after a few deep breaths. Geralt takes in his appearance in the dim lighting, notes the way his skin is pale and pulled tight over the bones of his face. He’s clammy, much like the man he’d spoken to when they’d first ridden into town. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As it is, Geralt can’t imagine that Jaskier is too keen on speaking with him, but after a moment too long of awkward silence, Jaskier begins to recite his experience with a quiet focus that Geralt’s only seen while the bard was composing. His face is pulled tight with strain and exhaustion, but he still remembers to tell Ciri to have a seat on the chair in the corner of the room, and offers Geralt a glass of tea that he guarantees is safe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He speaks of the time he’d had traveling across Redania, and his speech is lacking the animated gestures that Geralt hadn’t noticed make up the near majority of his manner. Much of his tale is the same as Geralt’s— the toxic water and large hoards of monsters. Jaskier takes a moment to absently speculate if Nilfgaard is behind the issue, but quickly dismisses his own thought without allowing Geralt a word in edgewise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I see you’ve finally lost your battle with Destiny,” he says after he finishes his tale, and Ciri looks between them in surprise. “But, if you came to hear about the state of the north, I’m afraid this is all I can tell you. If you’ll please, I do need to rest.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt stands to herd Ciri out of the room, not unaware of the small bit of resistance she puts up. She’d been entranced by Jaskier and his clear voice much like Geralt had, even with him in this state. Even now she cranes her neck to bid him good night just before the scent of blood fills the air. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Immediately, Ciri is behind him, and Geralt takes a moment to scent the air again before his eyes land on Jaskier and the heavy trickle of blood spilling from his nose. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You have the blight.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s certainly possible, though not confirmed,” Jaskier says with a strange strain in his voice. “I must admit that the thought is humbling. A reminder that for all the flitting about I do, I, too, can succumb to Destiny same as any.” Geralt doesn’t move, his eyes watching Jaskier as he sinks deeper into the stiff mattress. “I see you still have your impeccable knack for standing and staring, Witcher, but as you see, when faced with my own mortality, I’ve found I’ve no want for silent attempts at communication. So, if you have nothing to say to me, let the girl up and leave me to my rest and later travels.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt steps away from the wall, but neither he nor Ciri makes any attempt to leave the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll have no more travels if I leave you to waste away in this backwater tavern,” Geralt grumbles, and Jaskier’s eyes narrow with thinly veiled irritation. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Excuse you! This place served me plenty during my time as a student. It’s only fitting that I die here as I lived— on the road.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“More like as a naive fool,” Geralt grumbles before he can stop himself, and he’s surprised by a sharp elbow digging into his uninjured side. Ciri glares up at him </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“At least one of us can set him right with some sort of success!” Jaskier exclaims in delight. “You’ll do well just like that, Child Surprise! Don’t let him treat you as you can see he’s treated me for the last twenty-odd years of our ill-fated friendship.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re Jaskier the bard,” Ciri says suddenly, awe apparent in her voice. “You’re famous.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s a statement I will never tire of hearing. Very pleased to meet your acquaintance, </span>
  <em>
    <span>princess</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” He whispers ‘princess’ in a low voice that even Geralt has trouble picking up. The foresight and thoughtfulness of the action catches Geralt off guard. “I’m afraid I cannot provide you with a proper greeting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s okay,” Ciri reassures, and looks up at Geralt with wide eyes. Geralt keeps his gaze on Jaskier, who stares right back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Be sure to steer clear of the larger rivers. The smaller ones should be safe, for now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And boiling the water?” Geralt asks, just to confirm what he’d heard from the patrons downstairs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Useless. Even I was smart enough to know that. Only a fool would drink water that still smells of rot even after it’s boiled.” He doesn’t provide any more information on that topic, and his eyes are becoming less focused by the second. Geralt nods his thanks, Jaskier stares, and Geralt turns to pull Ciri from the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He barely makes it halfway down the hall before Ciri stops him and looks up at him with disapproving eyes. “Is he not your old friend? You’re just going to let him die?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He doesn’t want to see me, and I’m the last person he wants to see, let alone accept help from. We didn’t part on good terms.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Was it your fault? Why doesn’t he like you?” Geralt stares down at her. He’s never been one to dismiss questions from her, but he’s extremely tempted to do so in this moment. He considers the empty hall and nearly empty tavern below. Time is only moving further into the night, and it’ll take more than the measly hours left until dawn for Ciri to be rested enough to travel. This is a conversation that can wait until dawn, but Geralt knows that errant thoughts and questions have a habit of keeping Ciri awake through the night. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go to bed, Ciri. I’ll have a talk with him.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He turns back into Jaskier’s room and watches the man from the doorway for a second, listening to his slow, even breaths. He’s halfway convinced that Jaskier is asleep until his eyes open into slits in the firelight. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How long have you been like this?” Geralt asks, and closes the door behind him, taking up Ciri’s previous seat in the corner of the room. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not terribly long. The strange thing is that I feel fine—” he holds up a hand to ward off Geralt’s immediate argument— “My body’s just… tired. But I’m not in pain, I can still think clearly. I’m willing to bet the last ducats in my purse that I’ll feel well enough to ride come tomorrow. I do believe I’ve only succumbed to the exhaustion of being on the road.” Before Geralt can get a word in to contest Jaskier’s judgment or otherwise, he continues. “What changed your mind?” It’s apparent that he’s switched the topic to Ciri, though Geralt knows that Jaskier expects him to attempt to swing the conversation back. He surprises both of them when he doesn’t. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You said it yourself— I lost my battle with Destiny. With Cintra burning and Calanthe dead, she has no one.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m glad… not about Cintra, heavens no, but that you found each other. Denying Destiny brings no good luck to any man.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s these little bursts of seriousness that still catch Geralt off guard, even after all these years. Jaskier’s blue eyes gaze up at him with a serious openness that Geralt hasn’t seen in a long, long time. The fire crackles in the silence between them, and Geralt can feel Jaskier’s exhaustion seeping throughout the room.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you still… angry?” Geralt asks, and the open look in Jaskier’s eyes shutters before he can finish his sentence. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was never angry. Upset, yes. And frustrated with you and the world and everything that you said to me. But in that brief time, I took a spell of introspection. The fault is mine as much as yours—” Again, Jaskier holds up a hand to stop Geralt’s interruption— “I know now to stay away from where I am not wanted.” There’s a finality in Jaskier’s tone, and it makes Geralt feel unbalanced. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were never… unwanted.” Even still, he avoids what he really wants to say. He knows that Jaskier will hear it anyway. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You could have fooled me.” He did hear it, but it’s only seemed to irritate him further. “I’ve no interest in wasting my next twenty years, if I even have that much left in me, reading between non-existent lines. I am a poet, it’s my nature to find alternate meaning, to hear the truth behind the spoken word. But I am also an aging man, and I know that when people say things, they are often not reciting poetry.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s eyes slide to watch the fire, and Geralt’s eyes watch the way Jaskier’s hand taps an absent rhythm on the bed sheet. “I’m sorry, Jaskier.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Isn’t it just right for you to absolve yourself of a guilt that you probably did not feel? And just before my ultimate, though very much untimely demise.” His words are sharp, and they cut into Geralt with a force stronger than the rotfiend’s claws. His pain must show on his face, because Jaskier glances up at him with slight panic in his eyes. “That wasn’t fair. I’m sorry. You were already forgiven, old friend.” Though, judging by the bitterness in the man’s voice, forgiveness had not been earned. “As I said, the fault was just as much mine.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt knows that his disagreement will not be heard. “We need to get you to a healer. Or a mage. Something.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s voice is carefully pitched when he speaks. “The healers at Oxenfurt are not worth trying.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve heard as much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“They’re the best around these parts, though.” Geralt trusts that Jaskier would know, but doesn’t trust him enough to tell Geralt all of the options that are available. It’s a terrible problem, and it only makes the bitter taste in his mouth worse as he considers every decision he could make that would see Ciri </span>
  <em>
    <span>and</span>
  </em>
  <span> Jaskier healthy. There aren’t many. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m taking Ciri to Kaer Morhen,” and this really isn’t information he should disclose so freely, but he’s desperate. He knows that Jasiker can hear it creep into his voice, and he knows where Jaskier’s loyalties lie, even considering the bitterness that still sits between them. “There’s a man there, Vesemir. He may know what’s causing this.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh my dear friend, I’m afraid I don’t have the weeks left in me for just the possibility of a remedy.” Just this once, Geralt wishes for Jaskier to play more tricks with his words and to evade the truth just a little more tactfully. But Jaskier’s back to staring at the fire with that pensive look pulling at his already terribly gaunt face, and Geralt can only think to try to solve this. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe Yennefer—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Listen, Geralt, it’s alright. I’ve accepted this.” That stings, too. Stirs in his brain against the aches and the headache he’s just realizing he’s had this whole time. Jaskier’s still not looking at him, either, and somehow that hurts the worst of all. “I’ve done all I wanted to do— I made a name for myself. I’ve seen more of this continent that I suspect most men have. I was preparing to settle down and teach at Oxenfurt in my old age, but I know now that retirement is in my cards as much as it was in yours.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt fumbles for a second with the math required to understand Jaskier’s words. “But… you’re not old.” Middle aged, maybe. But not </span>
  <em>
    <span>old</span>
  </em>
  <span>. There were plenty of men in their forties on the road traveling with little to no difficulty. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m slowing with age, Geralt. There’s no other way to explain it. Mellowing, if that’s what you’d like to call it. If I’m not blighted, then this is the only explanation.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thought of Jaskier in this dingy tavern meeting the same fate as the man the barmaid had mentioned is managing to upset Geralt far more than he thought it would. “I… I can’t. You deserve more. Better than… this.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The blight isn’t a disease, Geralt. It’s a curse.” Geralt looks up in surprise, and finally, finally Jaskier looks at him again. His eyes are lidded with weariness, but he keeps them open with what Geralt can tell to be a great amount of difficulty. “It can’t be cured, it has to be lifted and no person on this continent can just get better. Someone placed a powerful curse on us all, and until it’s lifted, we’re all doomed to the same fate. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> why I accepted it. Time and the blight both… they’re powerful magic, and stubborn as I am, even I can’t stand against the will and whim of some far off sorcerer or sorceress or any other magical being that felt so inclined to slowly destroy an entire continent.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How do you know that? That it’s magic?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can feel it. It’s so strong— do you not? I felt it seeping out of the rivers, just like that terribly awful smell. Can you really not?” Geralt shakes his head and Jaskier sighs, something deep and exhausted. Geralt can’t bring himself to respond aloud— he’d assumed very rationally that he had more magic in the nail on his pinky than Jaskier had in his entire bloodline. Even now, his medallion rests still on his chest, a surer sign than ever that there’s nothing supernatural at work in this room. And yet Jaskier’s made no gesture that he could have been joking. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s late,” Jaskier says suddenly, “and you’ve left your Child Surprise alone in that cold room. Go tell her that we’ve kissed and made up, and I will see you tomorrow.” Geralt hesitates while he stands, and Jaskier gives him a look so impossibly soft, Geralt nearly sits back down. “I promise you, a night’s rest is all I need. If I’m not here come morning, know that I did not meet this particular fair lady willingly.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Geralt goes and leaves Jaskier, alone and exhausted, in his room. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. good luck, change for the better</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Alternatively: <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vQN2-dX0R1E&amp;list=PL3gTP9yU_cSFVAVxi2oJwlTRuLvy0y3XC&amp;index=5">nothing else matters 8 course lute cover</a></p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>In an alternate world, maybe one that Jaskier will admit he spends a </span>
  <em>
    <span>bit </span>
  </em>
  <span>too much time fantasizing about, he sits on the stone walls of a keep. His lute’s in his hand, and he strums along to the most mournful tune he’s sure he’s ever written. Of course, being a dream, the tune is never concrete, never </span>
  <em>
    <span>there</span>
  </em>
  <span> enough for him to make whatever he hears inside his head an actuality. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The problem is, he’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>never</span>
  </em>
  <span> had trouble reaching inside his own mind to pull something out. So that little fact, combined with the very big problem of his own wavering and slightly questionable mortality, is what opens his eyes in the morning night after night of believing that he would never leave sleep’s sweet embrace. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The blight’s been kind to him thus far, leaving him with just enough energy to pick up his lute at night, even if he can’t muster his voice to leave its throat. Small mercies, little things to make his suffering bearable. Alongside, of course,  the fact that he, unlike so many others, is still alive. And in that alternate world, with none of his mortal troubles, he would be overjoyed to meet Ciri. Delighted to see her little face with eyes so full of worldly intelligence. He hadn’t had the energy to properly greet her, nor the energy to feel the </span>
  <em>
    <span>excitement</span>
  </em>
  <span> of finally meeting Geralt’s Child Surprise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And while he’s lived long enough to begin to slow, he knows that were it not for his blasted blight, he would have long, long years ahead of him that he would have loved to spend getting to know princess. Long years he would have spent writing the tale, making sure that neither the memory of Ciri, nor Geralt and Yennefer, would ever fade. And he </span>
  <em>
    <span>should</span>
  </em>
  <span> have all of the gray hairs of his colleagues and the blockish physique to match. But where his bones do not creak in the mornings or after a long night spent composing under the stars, the magic of the world around him clings to him in a heavy, static shroud, and he cannot escape it even in sleep. It’s only his wanderlust that keeps him on the road, drives his boots along the beaten path from Oxenfurt and into the wilderness even after he sees the blighted river and the animals that lay dry along its banks. The world around him crumbles at the hands of a powerful and persistent curse, and Jaskier can feel the buzz of it when he assesses the river and gazes upon the burnt out crops and hollowed eyes of the people around him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alas, this strange, magical blight cares not for the mortality of men. It is Destiny in it’s mannerisms, and Jaskier, like all natural and unnatural creatures, must bow to it’s whims. Even still, he wills himself to die as he lived— running steadily away from his own mortal coil. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Before he’d recognized this blight as something magical, he and so many of his countrymen believed it to be the common plague. Except for the small fact that plagues don’t often drain the </span>
  <em>
    <span>life force</span>
  </em>
  <span> from their victims. These dead were drained from the inside, hollowed, and Jaskier was willing to bet that this blight drew energy from the lives that it had managed to steal. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, in all of Jaskier’s observations and idle musings, he still could not explain… himself. He was very much blighted, having made the grave error of meandering too close to a rotten stream and falling right in, not that he was tempted to impart that particular detail to Geralt. He had, of course, told Geralt about the preparations he’d made for when the inevitable came… </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though, the blight doesn’t seem too keen on draining </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span> any time soon, with the caveat that he could not seem to </span>
  <em>
    <span>stay</span>
  </em>
  <span> blight free, as he could not avoid the luxuries of a bath for as long as any other well seasoned traveler. If he were to die soon, it would not be in squalor and filth, even if the current inn he occupies is of questionable quality. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All this to say, Jaskier has decided— actually, he’d decided the moment he’d seen Geralt climbing the stairs behind the very sturdy barmaid and her lovely assistant— that the details surrounding his continued illness were irrelevant. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, while he saddles his horse with renewed vigor and a steadfast resolution to avoid Geralt’s incredulous gaze, he relays what he knew of the blight to his two new traveling companions, internal musisings and all. His early morning preparations take much longer than they might have a few years ago— he’d begun to travel with a simple broadsword and a set of slightly more ornate daggers after he realized that fame had two faces— and he prepares under Ciri’s wide and curious gaze. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tells them all that he knows: that this is neither a disease nor is it contagious— the way Geralt’s shoulders loosen in relief is a welcome, though morally confusing, sight— and that, as far as he knows, he’s not going to </span>
  <em>
    <span>die</span>
  </em>
  <span> any time soon, so Geralt can stop staring at him like that thank you very much. It only takes a few minutes for Geralt’s words from the previous night to catch up to him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not going to accompany you all the way to Kaer Morhen.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You said you wanted to die on the road,” Geralt says in a low voice as if Ciri out of earshot and not standing ridiculously close to his side. “Wouldn’t it be fitting for you to die while on the way traveling to the fabled witcher keep?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Leave the poetic musings to me,” Jaskier says while he swings up onto his horse. “I said that to get you to leave me alone.” With the light but insistent weight of his lute, he can already feel his lower back growing tight with exhaustion. He hopes the way his energy has already begun to flag isn’t as obvious to his companions as it is to him. At best, he’ll make it to Kaer Morhen in a month’s time and find a magical witcher cure for his ailment. Realistically, he’ll slow his companions down, get them stranded in Kaedwen in the dead of winter and get them all killed. Perhaps he’ll appeal to Geralt’s practical side later, get him to realize that leaving him in Novigrad on the way there is the best plan for everyone’s safety.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt merely hums in response and helps Ciri up to Roach. He takes Roach’s reins and pulls her along, and Jaskier reels for a moment at how off balance he feels riding a horse alongside Geralt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The tables have turned!” He exclaims as happily as he can muster, and Ciri looks at him with a questioning look that she had to have picked up from Geralt. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Worse this way,” Geralt grumbles without looking back. “Person on the ground is the smallest target. Bandits, pirates, whatever— they’ll go after the easiest target first. But I don’t want you to have to walk. I’ll keep my guard up, we’ll be fine.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier wonders if that had been Geralt’s reasoning all of those years, and what this new info will do to his still healing heart, while Ciri digs her heels into Roach’s side enough to get her to stop even with Geralt pulling her along. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Won’t that make you tired?” Ciri asks once Geralt turns around to look at her. “Using your senses all the time like that?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt’s face scrunches, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>yes</span>
  </em>
  <span> he’d been right — Geralt and Ciri’s confused faces look exactly the same. It would be adorable, if not for the nature of Ciri’s questions. Even Jaskier knows that Geralt’s quick to get overwhelmed by his surroundings and overly disturbed by the amplified sounds of wood creaking in the forest and rodents darting around underfoot. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nothing meditation won’t fix—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But you won’t meditate! You’ll stay awake all night to ‘keep watch’ or whatever. I’m walking with you.” For the first time in a long time, Jaskier’s content to mind his own business with this argument. He agrees with Ciri, or he </span>
  <em>
    <span>wants</span>
  </em>
  <span> to agree, but he knows that the moment his boots touch the ground he’ll be out for the count. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Walking with me won’t make me relax.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’ll both be small targets then!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And Jaskier will still be up there, so I’ll still keep my guard up.” In his heart, Jaskier knows that Geralt hadn’t meant to sound accusatory. It doesn’t stop Jaskier from feeling a pang of… whatever feeling it was that made him feel like a burden. Impact over intent, and all that. “Stay on Roach, Ciri. We’ll travel faster.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ciri begrudgingly cedes to Geralt, her stubborn nature peeking through the way she carefully rides atop Roach. She pouts for a moment before Jaskier ropes her into a conversation about Cintra’s old court gossip, and her opinions on a few of Jaskier’s old court bard colleagues. Eventually, Ciri wrests control of Roach from Geralt, something Jaskier never thought he would see with his own two eyes, and rides up to a more companionable distance from Jaskier and his gelding. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Geralt told me you played at my mother’s betrothal,” Ciri chirps, and for some reason </span>
  <em>
    <span>that’s</span>
  </em>
  <span> what makes Geralt toss an unreadable glance over his shoulder. “Can you play me what you played? Or was that too long ago? Do you still remember?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course I remember, dear Ciri! What kind of musician would I be if I just up and forgot my own music! What would that say of my integrity? Of my artistry, and of my—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt barely speaks loud enough to be heard and still manages to cut Jaskier off with the same efficiency of a shout. Really, Jaskier would applaud his vocal control, if the man could carry a tune. “Just play the music, Jaskier.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It will be hard to convince Ciri that the problem is not with his memory, but with the way he’s sure if he lets go of the reins long enough to try to play his lute, he’ll fall headfirst from the saddle. He’s not sure which excuse will cause his pride the most damage. His deliberation takes a moment longer than it normally would have… a few moments longer. Or… it must have taken much longer than it should have, because before Jaskier can even think to open his mouth to reply, he realizes that his horse has stopped, that they’ve </span>
  <em>
    <span>all</span>
  </em>
  <span> stopped, and that not only is he no longer </span>
  <em>
    <span>atop</span>
  </em>
  <span> his horse, he’s stood beside it with Geralt hovering nervously nearby. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The world around him tilts abruptly, enough to send him reeling back into his horse for support. When it ends, and when the accompanying nausea has lessened enough to speak through, he peers up at Geralt and Ciri’s twin expressions of concern… and fear?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s a new one,” he says as cheerily as he can despite the fear slowly building in his gut. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>a new symptom, and a scary one indeed. He’s never lost time before… or maybe he has. It would actually make sense for him to </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> know that he’d lost time—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jaskier, what the fuck was that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not sure! The fainting isn’t new but the vertigo sure is. And I’ve never awoken from a faint while standing up, so that’s a scary first—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You were speaking Elder,” Ciri says, and Jaskier looks to Geralt’s grimly set face for confirmation. “It was your voice, but it was… You don’t remember?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He most certainly does not! “Maybe. Possibly. Could you remind me what I was saying? Jog my memory a bit?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neither Geralt or Ciri answers, still staring at him through his quickly mounting worry. He knows Geralt must be able to sense it or smell it no matter how well he’s masking it from his mannerisms, but Ciri can’t. She won’t know how serious this is unless he tells her, or unless Geralt decides to tell her, so he throws his performance mask on and hopes that Geralt catches the hint. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Whatever was said,” he says and tests his balance as surreptitiously as he can, “it’s probably unimportant. I elect that we continue our journey!” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jaskier…” Ciri says quietly, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>oh</span>
  </em>
  <span>. They can’t continue their journey, because Jaskier’s episode must have lasted for much, much longer than he’d thought, what with the darkness quickly falling around him. And when Jaskier reaches up to wipe the sweat from his brow, he realizes with a chill that his forehead is covered in blood, and now that he’s back to full awareness, his pumping blood is pushing it over his brow and into his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When the world goes sideways this time, Geralt rights him and leads him to lean against a tree, Ciri on his heels with a swathe of gauze and a strong-scented healing balm. She parts his hair and pats it directly on his scalp, ignoring his hiss of protest. “You fell off of your horse,” Ciri whispers quietly while she continues to check his scalp for injuries. “We thought you were concussed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Still can’t rule that out,” Geralt grumbles, and Jaskier curses himself for taking so long to decide on taking out his lute. It seems destiny decided for him. Still, it’s hard for him to feel the damage to his pride when his head is pounding and Ciri’s floating about his head </span>
  <em>
    <span>emanating </span>
  </em>
  <span>worry and confusion. “This isn’t good, Jaskier.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really? I thought it was wonderful. I really do love passing out and being in pain.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I mean you could have died. Not many people survive falls like that when they’re completely healthy—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I assure you, I am a very sturdy man. It’ll take more than a little blight and a tumble to take me out of this plane.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt doesn’t seem to be listening, not as he ties and waters the horses. “The curse.” Geralt says, and before he can question it, Jaskier feels Ciri’s hand still as she finds the largest wound on his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You won’t like this. You need stitches. I might have to cut your hair. But it only grazed—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You sure?” Geralt asks from across the camp. Ciri responds in a monotone hum that Jaskier would normally be able to decipher without a second thought. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s only a scratch,” she says after a moment of prodding. “It looks worse than it really is. He’s really lucky.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier’s muddled brain takes a moment to catch up. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, princess, it’s just that—” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I stitch up Geralt all the time. You’ll be okay.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>And the other pressing issue— “A curse? What was that about the curse?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt barely looks up when he responds. He’s milling about in his potions bag, and each ring of glass on glass sends something close to excruciating shooting behind Jaskier’s eyes. “You said it was a curse and not a blight. If it’s magic, we can ask Yennefer. She would know better than anyone. I thought about it when we talked last night. We should be able to contact her on the way north.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even with a near mortal injury, Jaskier’s not foolish enough to agree to something like this. “See, if you would’ve led with this, you know that I would have declined. Yennefer with Ciri? Wonderful. Delightful idea. Yennefer with </span>
  <em>
    <span>me</span>
  </em>
  <span>? I would much rather succumb.” Even he can hear the way his voice slurs and trips. Talking more won’t help, but Jaskier’s sure that he’s never cared about that. “Thank you both for these lovely hours of company, but I am very sad to say that I must depart.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can barely stand,” Ciri quips from behind him, still tugging and pulling at his scalp. He can barely feel her ministrations over the </span>
  <em>
    <span>agony</span>
  </em>
  <span> swimming behind his eyes. A few more moments of this, and Jaskier’s sure he’ll be unconscious once again. Which… he can’t quite remember if being unconscious is good or bad for concussions. If that’s what he’s suffering from. It’s not a good diagnosis either way, especially not with the general exhaustion of the curse pulling at his limbs. He lets his eyes drift closed as Ciri pastes something cooling </span>
  <em>
    <span>and </span>
  </em>
  <span>numbing across his scalp, and he’s almost asleep before he hears Geralt’s voice </span>
  <em>
    <span>much </span>
  </em>
  <span>too close to his ear. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re in pain,” Geralt says, and Jaskier startles out of his doze. “If I give you this,” he brandishes something that Jaskier absolutely cannot see through his wavy vision, “you have to promise to stay awake for as long as you can.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I try not to make promises—” Jaskier intends to mutter, but everything is… too much. When he rolls his head back against the tree, he finds that Geralt is sitting much closer than he’d expected. “I can’t,” he whispers instead. The exhaustion is too much to pretend, and pretending won’t help Geralt help Jaskier. “I can’t promise. I need to sleep.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s okay,” Geralt says close to his ear again, and Jaskier gets the very distinct feeling that it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>not okay</span>
  </em>
  <span>… but Geralt’s voice is so, </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>achingly tender that Jaskier’s completely sure that he’s already asleep. Or close enough to sleep for hallucinations. Or a fever dream—  it honestly could be any of the three at this point. Geralt pulls him slightly closer, and Ciri finishes up wrapping his wounds, and something thick and sweet as nectar is pushed up to his lips and… he’s gone. </span>
</p><p><br/>
<br/>
<br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier wakes curled up on his side, the blanket from his bedroll pulled tighter around his body than he’d ever be capable of doing himself. There are three pillows surrounding his head, likely from all three of their bedrolls combined, and the angle of the linens thankfully keeps the early morning sun from assaulting his eyes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just like every morning, the exhaustion brought on by the curse hangs in a distant corner of his mind, but unlike every morning, his whole body aches with a </span>
  <em>
    <span>different </span>
  </em>
  <span>sort of pain, the kind he knows comes directly from falling about six feet to the ground. He abandons his first attempts at getting up after the pain is too great, suppresses a groan, and presses his eyes tight shut again. The quiet sounds of Geralt and Ciri milling about tell him that he’ll have to be up and ready to move relatively soon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps he should convince Geralt to obtain a carriage. Or even a farmer’s cart. Something to pull behind the horses so that that Jaskier can stay curled up, just like—</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ciri’s face appears in his vision not a moment later, and he startles so violently he nearly reawakens the migraine that had just begun fading. When he blinks, her face falls out of focus for a startling moment, and he knows that he must look crazed while he stares nearly unseeingly at her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s the last thing you remember?” She asks through a muddy haze, and Jaskier takes a moment to consider— and get it together— before he answers with the obvious. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Geralt gave me some sort of drought, which I thank you for. And then I went…” Ciri’s blurry face is falling faster with each word. “I went to sleep?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Geralt woke you up every hour last night. You don’t remember?” Jaskier is getting the feeling that there’s much, much more to that than what Ciri’s letting go. But Geralt’s silent wherever he is in camp, and Jaskier has no choice but to answer as honestly as he can. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am a heavy sleeper, so I’m not sure. Ask Geralt— sometimes I up and complete whole tasks without so much of a thought about it in the morning. My lack of memory is hardly something to—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ciri interrupts him. “Do you have the energy to travel?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course I do, if I get to stay atop my darling Pegasus. I even promise I won’t fall again.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’ll ride with me,” Geralt says from somewhere behind Jaskier, startling him </span>
  <em>
    <span>again</span>
  </em>
  <span>, though this time his headache returns full swing. “Ciri can take… Pegasus.” He says the name with an incredulous air of distaste that would offend Jaskier on any other day. “We’ll trade off to give the horses a break.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I warn you, Pegasus is a very stubborn man. And quite slow. Don’t let his build fool you, he can move quickly when he wants to, but—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He’s fat,” Ciri says, interrupting him to take a look at the top of his head. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Sturdy</span>
  </em>
  <span>. And I’ll have you know, I also got him at an excellent price from a trader, though probably not the most reputable man around.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Geralt was right,” Ciri sighs. “You talk </span>
  <em>
    <span>a lot</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m glad to hear that Geralt has been talking about my loquaciousness.” Ciri wheels around into Jaskier’s vision, and he’s thankful that his vision has cleared enough to see the way her nose scrunches at the word. “Of course, between the two of us, someone has to fill the silence! And the better you are at talking, the better you are at writing poetry, lecturing, and all of the finer points of advanced education.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“And attracting monsters,” Geralt cuts in. When he moves into Jaskier’s range of vision, he’s carrying Roach’s saddle. “Are you still hurting?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No,” Jaskier chirps before he can stop himself. “I’m just extremely comfortable where I am. These pillows really make all the difference, even if yours smells,” he sniffs, “ only slightly of drowner brains and mildew! I’m proud of you.” With a great amount of effort, he forces himself to sit up to look at Geralt fully. “You know Ciri, I spent a very long time at Geralt’s side and all I’ve learned is that he’s inconsistent. For a man that hates filth, he absolutely does not care for his belongings enough.” When Ciri laughs, and when Geralt dons an affonted look, Jaskier continues. “Oh yes! One time, though it was while he was very drunk, he told me that once he—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt cuts in before he can finish, and if the curious look on Ciri’s face is anything to go by, Jaskier has won by default. The story will be told either way, if Ciri holds the endless thrumming curiosity intrinsic to children her age. “Do you always have to be so—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Charming, witty, and well spoken?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I was going for </span>
  <em>
    <span>obnoxious</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Aht! None of that! Remember, it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> that insisted I accompany you for once. And,” he stretches his arms over his head, struggling with every vein in his body to not react to the aches and twinges of his absolutely exhausted muscles, “I’m injured. Where is the bedside manner?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You forfeited it when you injured yourself miles away from the closest bed,” Geralt replies, but reaches a hand out to help pull Jaskier to his feet. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Standing, he can see that the camp’s been mostly cleared, save for the bedroll and pillows, which Geralt immediately sets to bundling back up. Jaskier sways a little, aimless and still endlessly disoriented, but before he can linger for too long, Geralt guides him to Roach and helps him up. Ciri swings up deftly onto Pegasus, the new and unfamiliar rider only startling the gelding a little. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt squeezes into the single person saddle behind him, and the two of them play a game of shuffling around until they’re both as comfortably seated as possible. They stand for a moment, letting Roach adjust to the added weight. While Geralt urges her into a walk, then a trot and canter, Jaskier lets himself relax as much as he can without causing Geralt any undue inconvenience. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s strange being this close to the witcher after so long, but as much as Jaskier would like to comment or joke or </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span>, the idea of closing his eyes and taking in the sounds of the forest around them is much more appealing. They spend all of the morning on the road before stopping for food when the sun is at its peak in the sky. When they set off again, Geralt urges Roach forward and picks up the pace, and they move forward at a faster pace than Jaskier had ever managed when traveling with the witcher. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Jaskier, your horse is </span>
  <em>
    <span>really</span>
  </em>
  <span> slow,” Ciri says quietly, judgment heavy but concealed in her voice. Jaskier lolls his head over to stare at her. Geralt laughs, a sound that barely leaves his chest, but with his ear pressed right against Geralt’s armor, it rumbles through Jaskier’s head.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, dear, I understand,” Jaskier mumbles. “If not for my mount, we would otherwise be riding full tilt across the continent. Months of travel be damned— my horse is the only thing standing between us and Roach’s teleportation powers.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ciri laughs a bright and full thing, and despite the way it causes Jaskier pain untold, he’s extremely glad to hear it. He leans back in the saddle, uncomfortable with his precarious position but very comfortable in the gentle sway of the mare. He’s not sure how long he dozes, but when he opens his eyes again, the sun is low on the horizon, and Geralt’s still leading them ahead at a snail’s pace.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He pulls Roach to a stop while Jaskier wills himself awake, and steadies Jaskier in the saddle before extracting himself. Ciri pulls Pegasus in close, and Jaskier shakes off the final dregs of exhaustion to </span>
  <em>
    <span>focus</span>
  </em>
  <span> on what’s before him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The thick pall of rot hits Jaskier full force while he assumes control of Roach, and it’s not long before he spots what caught Geralt’s attention— there’s a pile of bodies on the side of the road surrounded by bumbling alghouls. Jaskier knows enough to know that they’re dangerous, more so than the average ghoul, and he suspects that Ciri knows the same. They stay back as Geralt advances forward, nearly out of sight, and draws their attention with the metallic hiss of his silver sword. He takes down the first few with ease, casting signs and dipping out of the way when the creatures draw too near. From atop Roach, the fight looks much like a child taunting puppies— the alghouls fall for Geralt’s tricks almost comically fast. Even from this distance, Roach titters nervously as the fight wages on, and Ciri circles Pegasus around, moving him farther away. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Jaskier makes the mistake of letting her out of his sight, so when she gasps, he’s barely able to turn Roach around in time to see Ciri kicking Pegasus into a gallop away from the alghouls emerging from the forest. Jaskier’s caught between two decisions— shout for Ciri to flee, which would inevitably draw Geralt’s attention away from a fight that looks like it’s proving to be difficult, or let Ciri handle it the way he knows that Geralt has taught her to do. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Destiny seems keen on punishing him for the crime of indecision, and Jaskier barely manages to shout an incoherent warning before everything goes straight to hell. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pegasus doesn’t listen to Ciri’s commands, moving at a canter away from the monsters and nowhere near fast enough to escape them. She unsheathes the sword that she’s been carrying at her hip, but she’s not quite fast enough, and while Jaskier shouts and waves his arms to attract the creatures away from her, Roach finally gives in to the fear and </span>
  <em>
    <span>throws </span>
  </em>
  <span>him from her back. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>This time, Jaskier’s conscious enough to fall properly, and to avoid her still kicking legs, but her scream and Jaskier’s shouts were sure to have drawn Geralt’s attention— and the attention of even more necrophages from the woods nearby. When he rights himself, he curses his own poor choice in a steed— Ciri still struggles to get the horse to move at any sort of acceptable speed other than in a lame circle away from the monsters, and while Jaskier brandishes his sliver dagger at the closest creatures, Pegasus lets out a wounded cry and Ciri dives from the saddle. The horse falls, and for a moment, Jaskier’s heart stops.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And then Ciri emerges, miraculously unharmed, green eyes blazing and brandishing her narrow sword with a kind of confidence that makes her look much, much larger than she really is. She cuts down the two smallest ghouls and rushes to Jaskier’s side.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Use your sword,” she tells him. “It’s not silver but it’ll keep them away from you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He does as he says, and they make quite the rag-tag team, barely managing to keep the ghouls at bay before Geralt cuts his way through, blasting the closest back with Aard. The three of them back into each other, and Jaskier’s painfully aware of his side being the </span>
  <em>
    <span>weakest</span>
  </em>
  <span> one, but he can’t consider that for long while ghouls growl and hiss at him without charging. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The evening wears on with Geralt and Ciri fighting side by side and Jaskier staying back, watching the ghouls as they give him a wide berth. Experimentally, during a gap in the fight, he steps forward to watch three ghouls spring back out of the way. Something in him tugs and pulls at him to move </span>
  <em>
    <span>away</span>
  </em>
  <span> from the monsters, something stronger than pure instinct and fear, but he takes another step forward, and the ghouls shriek and run away further. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Geralt and Ciri stop as the monsters back away, bewildered before they realize that the reason is </span>
  <em>
    <span>Jaskier</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and that with each shaky step he takes forward, something powerful in him </span>
  <em>
    <span>throbs</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He gives Geralt a big enough opening to finish the last of the spindly creatures off, and Jaskier realizes that his lips are moving on their own accord. He can feel the vibrations of his voice in his mouth, throat, chest, but he can’t hear himself, nor Geralt and Ciri as they clearly call after him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The same force that kept the monsters at bay keeps his companions away from him as well, and he steps forward and forward into the carnage until that deep rooted pull finally manages to stop him. His lips stop moving, he raises his hands to the sky, and the broken bodies around him burst into flame. </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>on today's episode of how much can you put one man through-- like the jaskier whump isn't over yet but also it's pretty much over</p><p>im literally writing these chapters in like 45 minutes between workshopping the way the quality is so much lower than what i want for myself please go easy on me</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. a celebration</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Local man steadfastly ignores his impending doom also known as the plot thickens</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In a tavern in Rinde, something catches Yennefer’s attention. It's enough to make her glamour fall off in a smooth instant, enough to startle nearly all of the surrounding tavern patrons and to make her set her glass of wine down as her hands tremble. Her contact spots her in record time and scrambles out of the door before she can begin to attempt to reassure him, and while she ponders how to go about mending that burned bridge, she also desperately tries to figure out just what could have interrupted her concentration <em> that </em>much. </p><p>There are few people on the Continent who’ve earned Yennefer’s protection, and, by extension, her watchful eye. Ciri, for one, is her main concern. And of course, a few years ago after that fateful day on the mountain, she’d made sure to keep an eye out on Geralt’s ridiculously foolish yet strangely entertaining bard. But this had been a powerful burst of magic, enough to remind her distantly of the curse she could feel slowly creeping its way inward from the ocean. And if the bard <em> had </em> been a part of that, he most certainly would not have survived it. </p><p>She checks— he is still alive, if not a little worse for wear. </p><p>She checks again— he <em> is </em> alive… and surrounded by a thrumming, primal power. </p><p>There are very few explanations for this, though she’s certain that this has something to do with Ciri, even though the power is familiar. </p><p>But for her to analyze that power, she would have to find Geralt. And that was something she was unwilling to do. Still— if this is something concerning Ciri, it might be worth wandering closer than usual if it will allow her to find out more. And if it’s in connection to the blight-curse (which it very well may be, seeing as the timeframe lines up too well to be a coincidence), Yennefer’s not sure she’ll be able to stifle her curiosity and worry this time. </p><p>She wards her rented room with a flick of her wrist and sits down to do the real work of locating Jaskier, and hopefully by extension, Geralt and Ciri… though, judging by the bitterness she’d seen in Jaskier’s icy blue eyes that night after the Mountain, it’s really a toss up. The lark had a spine and teeth to match. </p><p>When Yennefer reaches out down her connection, she nearly startles at what she finds: Ciri, the source, that familiar primal power, Geralt, plain and magic resistant as he is, and <em> Jaskier </em> . She sees flames, a force field of some sort emanating around a blurry man. Screaming, loud enough to shake the trees, and she can smell the distinct scent of burning flesh, specifically burning monster flesh, before she’s thrown out of the vision. She takes a deep breath and forces herself back in, looking for anything that could <em> help </em> her, but all she can and feel and see is the general chaos of whatever moment she’s caught them in. </p><p>She gets a glimpse of Geralt, clear and untouched by the haze of her shaky connection, and for a moment she feels as if she’s made eye contact, even though it’s impossible. His medallion is <em> spinning </em> on his chest, and <em> oh. </em> There are two magical events happening at once. </p><p>Ciri is bent nearly backwards in the throes of power, mouth wide open in a scream that makes Yennefer’s head constrict with the force of it. Something has caused her to activate the primal power that exists in her body with reckless abandon. </p><p>The second, however, is the bard. He’s stood away from Geralt, bent forward in the opposite pose to the child surprise, head clutched in his hands. There’s a barrier around him, and from what Yennefer can tell, its including Geralt but excluding Ciri and… it’s large enough for her to open a portal inside of, if only she could—</p><p>She’s thrown out of the vision once again the moment her magic makes contact with the barrier, and she falls forward on her mattress, winded and <em> exhausted </em> . That much magic in one place is not good— it’ll draw the attention of every single mage around, and Yennefer knows for a fact that the mages will <em> not </em>have good intentions. Or, at least, intentions that are more pure and less harmful than her own. </p><p>As soon as the room stops spinning, Yennefer gathers her belongings and sends them away, clearing the room in a heartbeat. She’s forming a portal in the next moment, her hands already trembling with the exertion so soon after Sodden. She’s unconcerned with the repercussions of opening a portal what with the bursts of energy she can feel in response to whatever is happening on that road. </p><p>She steps through quickly, skirts trailing behind her, the smell of herbs and flowers ahead of her. </p><p> </p><p>~X~</p><p> </p><p>The moment Ciri stops screaming, Jaskier falls to his knees, coughing into the dirt and struggling to lift his head. Ciri drops to the ground not a moment later, and Jaskier scrambles up and pulls himself to her through the pain, stopping short only when he realizes that Geralt stands directly in his way, carefully holding Ciri away from him. </p><p>There’s distrust in his yellow eyes, but worry above all else. Jaskier doesn’t have the energy to assuage Geralt’s fears, let alone <em> stand </em>, so he keeps on his doomed path toward Ciri until Geralt lets him close enough to lay his dirtied hand on her too-pale face. He’s tired, utterly exhausted, but the bodily pain he’d come to associate with the blight is almost entirely gone, and his wounds from the night before are completely forgotten. </p><p>“What are you?” Geralt asks low in his chest, cradling Ciri to him while he crouches in the bloody and churned earth, still smoldering ghouls not ten feet away. “What was that?”</p><p>“I’m a human, last time I checked,” Jaskier says quietly, intending for it to be light. Geralt just narrows his eyes and pulls Ciri impossibly closer. </p><p>“And when was that?”</p><p>“Are you accusing me of wanting to hurt her?” He says, incredulous. Geralt doesn’t answer, and something bitter and <em>scared</em> climbs its way into Jaskier’s throat. “I would rather throw myself into the swamp and let the drowners have their way. I would sooner set my own elven lute aflame. Turn my dagger on myself—”<br/>Anger pulls itself through his whole body, doubling with the memory of Geralt’s snarled accusations on the mountain, things that he could have sworn he’d forgiven. Bitterness threatens to choke him into oblivion, blooming and spilling out of his mouth before he can even organize his own thoughts. He can feel that blasted headache returning, the same pull he’d felt that called him away from the fray, except it's pulling him <em>toward</em> Geralt, and it <em>wants to do harm</em>. </p><p>Before he can stop himself, throw himself back and <em> away </em>, Geralt grabs him and tugs him close, tucking him close to Ciri in Geralt’s own arms. </p><p>“It’s alright,” Geralt says low in his chest, and Jaskier realizes with a start that he’d been shaking, <em> trembling </em> with whatever has taken to his body. “It’s okay. I know you wouldn’t hurt her.”</p><p>“But what if someone else would?” Jaskier asks quietly, realizing belatedly that Geralt might interpret it in a different way than he had intended. Geralt only pulls him in closer. When he opens his mouth next, his voice is a whisper rough enough to rival Geralt. “What if—” </p><p>Ciri sighs and trembles, eyes shooting open. She squirms for a second, desperately trying to free herself despite Geralt’s grumbles of protests and Jaskier’s desperate shushing. When her sparrow's quick heartbeat finally slows, she opens her eyes just enough to peer up at Jaskier and Geralt, a frown already pulling at her sleep-slackened face. </p><p>“I’m sorry—”</p><p>“There’s nothing to apologize for,” Jaskier cuts in before Geralt can finish the low rumble of disapproval low in his throat. </p><p>“No, I’m sorry,” Ciri insists, and then wriggles her way out of Geralt’s grasp and to her feet. “The fire, it reminded me of—”</p><p>“Like I said—”</p><p>“And!” Ciri cuts in, and Jaskier’s a hundred percent sure by now that Ciri is legitimately a miniature Geralt, what with the sheer stubbornness alone. “And, I’m sorry about your horse.”</p><p>At that, Jaskier and Geralt both startle into motion, scrambling to their feet and looking around for the horses. Neither is visible, but at Geralt’s sharp whistle, Roach almost delicately picks her way out of the underbrush and trots over to them, heedless of the smouldering gore surrounding them. Jaskier’s undamaged lute swings from her shoulder while she moves. Jaskier knows better than to waste his time and effort whistling for Pegasus, but also knows that the stubborn horse wouldn’t have bothered to go further than he would have to in order to get out of danger. </p><p>But, Ciri had apologized. And <em> oh </em>, now that Jaskier thinks back, Pegasus had nearly fallen on her. But if he’s not lying in the same spot he’d gone down in, he most likely isn’t terribly injured. Jaskier knows how it is with horses and injuries, and he’d be awfully sad to see something like that befall his dear gelding. </p><p>Though Jaskier’s never asked, he knows that Geralt must be able to sense the strong emotions rolling off of him. He moves as if he’d read Jaskier’s mind, tilting his head in that way that betrays the fact that he’s listening hard for something in the woods around them. Ciri stills, nearly inhuman in her movements, and Jaskier does his best to do the same, especially if it’ll help Geralt focus. </p><p>“He’s that way,” Geralt says after a few moments. “I can’t quite tell if he’s injured. We’ll go take a look. Are you hurt?” </p><p>The question is aimed at both Jaskier and Ciri. They look at each other, assessing eyes in quick worried glances, before they both turn to Geralt to respond in the negative. </p><p>“Good,” Geralt offers hesitantly. He turns without preamble toward the aforementioned swathe of forest, moving slow enough for Ciri and Jaskier to trail behind. “Jaskier, what was that?”</p><p>Jaskier dallies for a moment under Ciri’s questioning gaze. He has a similar question for Ciri, but he’s sure that, judging by Geralt’s easy acceptance of the situation, this isn’t something that’s new to either of them. “I don’t know,” he answers honestly. “I felt like someone else was controlling me.”</p><p>“And they made you angry?”</p><p>“You could tell?” Jaskier’s poet’s heart is not sure that “angry” is a word to do whatever he’d felt justice. Fury, more likely. Bitterness and bloodlust, though only for a second. It had been enough to literally set the world around him ablaze, and if he’d been a simple bard hearing about the tale, he would be swooning at the poeticism of it all. Now, however, the thought sends ice pouring through his veins. This exhaustion is not a symptom of the blight. It’s not even something he recognizes from the few times he’s been cursed in the past— it’s something deeper and stronger. </p><p>“You reeked of it,” Geralt replies after a terse moment, confirming Jaskier’s suspicions. He must have been able to sense all of it, then, even the anger that had overtaken him at Geralt’s earlier implications. For all of Jaskier’s talkative nature, he can’t find it in himself to respond. </p><p>“When I saw the fire,” Ciri says behind him, voice quiet and calculating. “I didn’t think of Cintra at first. It was like… something forced the thought into my head. It felt like I was being pulled toward you.”</p><p>“And I, you,” Jaskier answers, remembering the confusing <em> pull </em> he’d felt. It hadn’t been pulling him <em> away </em> from the battle, but <em> toward </em> Ciri. The fear returns tenfold— the same force that wanted to drive him to hurt Geralt was also directing him toward Ciri. And he would legitimately rather throw himself from a Skellige cliffside than allow himself to sink into such depravity. </p><p>Geralt stops suddenly, holding his hand up for Jaskier and Ciri to do the same. For a moment, the forest around them is eerily silent. And then Jaskier feels it, the unmistakable <em> thrum </em>of power in the air. A small, sourceless breeze picks up in the whirlwind pattern that betrays the formation of a portal, and for a terse moment Jaskier stands behind Geralt, one arm in front of Ciri, waiting for the shoe to drop. </p><p>But no one steps through, and the portal closes before it can even open. Another appears to the left, and Geralt drops into a low stance, silver sword drawn and at the ready, but this portal does the same. When another begins to form, and Geralt spins to meet it, Jaskier can see the way the wolf medallion at his throat is nearly floating with the magic in the air. </p><p>Half formed and destroyed portals open all around them, forcing the three of them into an anxious, twirling dance in the woods until they finally make it to a clearing wide enough for the three of them to huddle close behind Geralt. </p><p>In the center of the clearing stands Pegasus, blood running down his haunch where an alghoul spine had pierced him during the fight. Injured horses toss their heads and stamp their feet in frustration and pain, dancing around in confusion and panic— Pegasus stands still and unmoving save for the agitated flicker of his tail. His ears are pointed forward, and Jaskier feels that <em> pull </em> again, strong enough to nearly throw his balance. </p><p>But he’s <em> determined </em> to prevent a repeat performance of his last magical feat. He resists the pull by pressing back into Geralt, who steps forward in what must be confusion. The gray horse, white in the twilight of the clearing, stares on with deadened eyes… and Jaskier realizes that Pegasus is part of the magic growing in the clearing, and— </p><p>A portal opens directly in front of Jaskier, and this time he <em> does </em> lose his balance. He’d be reluctant to admit that he’d gotten mildly used to the portals closing before they could open, and now as this one opens wide enough to reveal a swath of <em> nothingness </em> in front of him, he feels that same twinge of fear. It mounts and abates when he realizes that he recognizes at least one of the figures stepping through. </p><p>It’s Yennefer, power pouring out from each and every pore, and behind her is Triss Merigold, who gives Jaskier the sheepish smile that he remembers from their brief meeting <em> years </em> prior. When they close their portal, it does nothing to stop the magic surrounding, or the dying portals that seem to be increasing in quantity around them. </p><p>“You were right,” Triss says to Yennefer before anyone can speak. “This is <em> very strange </em> indeed.” She lifts her hands up in a small motion, and just like that the half formed portals around them cease to exist. “Wards seem to keep them out for good.” </p><p>“Good,” Yennefer replies without turning to her fellow sorceress. Her violet eyes gloss over Geralt before landing squarely on Ciri, who rushes forward to envelop her in a hug. Yennefer returns the hug fiercely, the two exchanging quiet words before Yennefer finally redirects her attention to Jaskier.</p><p>She looks around the clearing for a moment before continuing with no elaboration on her previous point.“Though I wish that our meeting could have happened somewhere less… unsettling.” She turns to look at Pegasus, who stills stands completely still and staring. Her attention turns to Jaskier, even though her gaze doesn’t leave the horse. “What is your dead horse doing standing here like a… herald?” </p><p>A herald. A harbinger. Except that Jaskier’s nearly completely certain that Pegasus is <em> not </em> dead, even if his eyes seem to be. “I’m not sure what you mean. I know that he’s lazy and stubborn, but <em> dead </em>—”</p><p>“You genuinely think he survived that—” she pauses for a second, fingers twitching at her side for a moment, “the <em> fall down the side of a cliff? </em>Jaskier what the fuck?” </p><p>Jaskier freezes. Yennefer <em> must </em> be reading his mind, digging around with reckless abandon through his memories, because he’s certain that that specific event was a particularly vivid dream. “Except he did <em> not </em> fall off the side of a cliff.” He’s extra careful to avoid Geralt and Ciri’s twin incredulous looks. He knows the kind of incompetence it takes to commit such a mistake as <em> falling from a cliffside with a horse </em> , but he also knows that it had been a <em> dream </em>. </p><p>“He did,” Yennefer replies with no concern for protecting Jaskier’s pride. “And when you woke up with him beside you, you thought it was all a dream. Something is very wrong here.” </p><p>Jaskier would like with all of his heart to be able to say that he doesn’t entirely hate Yennefer. But in this moment, he can only feel irritation toward her. He didn’t need a sorceress to show up just to tell him that something was <em> wrong </em>. He’d hoped that she could tell him exactly what it was that was happening. </p><p>“Are you telling me that Jaskier’s horse is the cause of this?” Geralt chips in just a second too late for him to have <em> not </em>been reeling at Yennefer’s presence. Jaskier represses the urge to shake his head in exasperation. “That this herald is the reason he’s cursed?”</p><p>“I’d wager that it’s the other way around. There’s power coming from both of them,” she waves dismissively at Jaskier and gestures politely to Ciri. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that Jaskier cursed his horse. Or whatever cursed Jaskier cursed his horse. And a white gelding… I’m sure there’s something to be said there. This is a very… particular curse.” </p><p>“It’s different from the blight,” Triss cuts in, and Jaskier’s startled to realize that he’d nearly forgotten completely about her presence. “But it’s similar. And…” she steps closer to Jaskier and closes her eyes for a moment, “he’s blight free. That’s incredibly strange.” </p><p>“Does it have to do with me?” Ciri asks, high and worried. Yennefer turns her steely gaze on her for a long, tense moment until it softens into something soft and caring. “Is it my fault?” Ciri’s voice is entirely unafraid and unintimidated. And like the sight of her wielding the sword so expertly, it makes something <em> proud </em> thrum in Jaskier’s heart, beneath the toiling fear and uncertainty, of course. </p><p>“Even if it does, it’s not your fault. It’s never your fault.” Yennefer  “Besides, your power is… primal. Senseless. His is pointed. There’s a purpose. I would say it's a curse, but it’s deeper than that. The objective is much stronger, more controlled.” She turns that gaze from Ciri to Jaskier, and unlike Ciri, Jaskier can feel himself wilt underneath it. He feels exposed, like she’s sifting through his thoughts and staring through him in the same action. She holds him there for a second longer, long enough for some of the fog still lingering behind Jaskier’s eyes to lift. </p><p>And then the <em> anger </em> comes back full force, so much that he stumbles under its suddenness. Yennefer holds a hand out, and whatever invisible power she uses <em> grips </em> him, both holds him up and keeps him conscious as blinding pain shoots behind his eyes. His throat fills with that bitter flavor, and his strumming hand seizes with the urge to reach for his dagger in his boot and… <em> oh </em>. He sees. </p><p>Yennefer must see too, because she releases him before the urge can completely take control, before it can break his arms against Yennefer’s magic restraints. The bloodlust recedes, and Yennefer and Triss exchange a meaningful look that doesn’t go unnoticed by Geralt. </p><p>“What’s wrong with him?”</p><p>“He’s cursed,” Yennefer answers simply, her eyes still on Jaskier’s. </p><p>“What kind of curse,” Geralt grits out, low and impatient. “Yenn, <em> what kind of curse </em>.” </p><p>“A dangerous one. A strong one. I don’t think I’d be able to break it. I wouldn’t know where to begin.” </p><p>“<em> What does it do? </em>”</p><p>And Yennefer ignores him. “Jaskier,” she says very seriously, and for a moment Jaskier’s less afraid of meeting her gaze than he is of her <em> tone </em>. It’s worried in a way he hadn’t known her to be capable of. “Are you a danger to Geralt?”</p><p>“I don’t know how I could be.” Because even if the anger and bloodlust is directed <em> at </em>Geralt, whatever it is hasn’t changed the fact that Jaskier is but a squishy human. Geralt could have him in ten pieces before he could even make a move. </p><p>Yennefer seems satisfied with that answer. “Are you a danger to yourself?”</p><p>Jaskier pauses. He’s not… entirely sure that he’s <em> not </em> a danger to himself. He’s not a danger on <em> purpose </em> , but the evidence points to the fact that he could be. He’d passed out a miraculous number of times after he <em> thought </em> he’d caught the blight and before he’d run into Geralt. And his episode of falling from Pegasus proved that whatever spells gripped him absolutely did not care about his own bodily health. And— Yennefer still hadn’t explained what she’d meant by Pegasus being dead <em> and </em>cursed, by Jaskier no less. </p><p>“No,” he answers quickly. </p><p>“Are you a danger to Ciri?”</p><p>This question again, and the answer is always the same. It will always be the same. “<em> No,” </em> he answers as fervently as he can. The list of things that he’d told Geralt run through his mind again. “ <em> Never. </em>” </p><p>With Yennefer’s knowing gaze on him, he has the sneaking suspicion that she’s privy to every thought that runs across his mind. Still, she nods and steps back, forming another portal behind herself. </p><p>“There’s a magical barrier surrounding the three of you,” she says while she works. “Though from which one of you, I can’t tell. It took the both of us just to break through long enough to portal here. And your little… <em> show </em> has attracted all kinds of unsavory attention. Come with us.” </p><p>“<em> Where.” </em> Geralt nearly growls from right behind Jaskier, and he nearly starts <em> again </em>at the proximity. </p><p>“Don’t you trust me?”</p><p>“You know the answer to that,” he says, and Jaskier feels a sharp pang of irritation spike at Geralt’s stubbornness. His spats with Yenn in the past were only ever mild inconveniences— now, Jaskier can only see them as childish, especially with the immediate danger that seems to be made tangible by Pegasus’s dead-eyed gaze. There is definitely a story to be uncovered here, between Geralt and Yennefer’s distance and Ciri’s apparent unconcern. But now’s not the time for an investigation. </p><p>“That would hurt if I cared,” Yennefer responds breezily. “Come now.” And the portal flares to life behind her. Triss steps through first in a flurry of flowing green silks. “If we stay here any longer, <em> someone’s </em> destined to break through whatever little barrier surrounds this place. Come, lead your horse through.” </p><p>Despite his hesitancy, Geralt steps forward with Roach’s reigns clutched tight in his hand. She doesn’t fight him as he leads her through, well accustomed to powerful magic being used in her presence. Jaskier follows with Ciri right by his side, and in an instant they’re in a well furnished room in what <em> must </em>be an apartment in Novigrad or somewhere similar. The sounds of the street outside and the distinctive smell of a city can’t be mistaken for anything else. </p><p>The room is full of the sharp, fragrant scent of dried herbs, most likely the ones that decorate every wall. There is an empty fireplace surrounded by two chaise lounges, mismatched yet kindred rugs carpeting the rugged wood floor. Deep set in the walls, sometimes behind the herbs, are books by the hundreds, stacked and placed neatly in bookshelves that run floor to ceiling. Already, Triss is at one shelf, running a finger across the tomes with the air of someone well acquainted with the place and order of each book. </p><p>The room is suspiciously missing both Yennefer and Geralt, who, perplexingly, walk in through the door on the other side of the room. Ciri thankfully still stands beside Jaskier, so close he can feel the heat of her body through his disgustingly soiled tunic. And if his clothing is ruined, he’s sure that Geralt and Ciri, who saw the most fighting, are absolutely filthy. A quick glance at the hair on Geralt’s head, and then Ciri’s, confirms his thoughts. </p><p>He realizes belatedly that <em> of course, </em> Yennefer wouldn’t portal Geralt and Roach into this quaint little room. </p><p>“There are baths in the rooms right below this one,” Triss says, and Jaskier realizes that <em> both </em>sorceresses have been reading his mind this entire time. She laughs quietly at his mental revelation, and he hopes that she can feel his mild displeasure. “Feel free to help yourselves while we research. This house is warded up as much as can be. We’ll be safe here for the time being.” </p><p>“We were on our way north,” Geralt says. “We can’t afford to wait around while you use Ciri and Jaskier like they’re some sort of experiment.” </p><p>“Trust me when I say we’ve saved you weeks on your journey,” Yennefer says dryly, setting to a task that’s similar to Triss’s and picking a select few books from the shelf in front of her. She waves a hand dismissively in the air, disturbing the dust motes emanating from her books. “Find something to distract yourselves. Bard?”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Please try not to do whatever it is you’ve been doing for the past,” she pauses, no doubt rummaging around through his brain again, “two years.”</p><p>Jaskier absolutely doesn’t dignify that. Geralt crosses the room in a few smooth strides, standing behind Ciri with his arms crossed. He stares at Yennefer for a second longer before placing a light hand on Ciri’s shoulder. “Come on,” he says to her, and she goes easily, gaze lingering on some of the more perplexing aspects of the room. Jaskier wants to do the same, but something keeps him in the room, keeps him focused on the largest book in Triss’s stack. Geralt’s absence, or maybe it’s Ciri’s, causes something inside Jaskier to shift. He would liken it to a switch off of drivers in a carriage if he was the one in control of his own thoughts. </p><p>“That one,” he says, and moves, compelled and focused. Triss gives him a strange look before clearing the other books from above it. </p><p>“What about it?”</p><p>“I just…” his lips move as if someone is <em> forcing </em>him to speak, and he doesn’t know his own intentions. He can’t figure out the goal of his actions. “Hand it to me.” </p><p>Yennefer turns before Triss can hand it over, <em> thank the gods </em>, and pins Jaskier with a severe look. “What do you need it for?”</p><p>Jaskier panics in that moment, ghost panic that doesn’t really belong to him. His response is simple— he doesn’t need the book. Wouldn’t even want to touch it, not with all of the dirt and grime sticking to it. But whatever it is inside of him needs it badly enough to force him into a jerky motion toward it. He supposes his movements are unnatural enough to startle Triss into snatching it away, and Jaskier feels as his body is <em> consumed </em> once again with that same anger from before. And with <em> anger </em> comes <em> fire </em>, if his past, unwitting accidents were a precedent. </p><p>The book in Triss’s hand bursts into flame, as does the dormant fireplace, and in one jerking motion, Jaskier <em> throws </em> the stack of tomes directly into the flames, much to the shock of both sorceresses. Their twin shouts of confusion, followed by Yennefer’s shout of frustration, inevitably draws Geralt’s attention, and he flies into the room not a moment later, stopping in the doorway. . </p><p>“Grab him!” Yennefer yells, and Geralt dallies in hesitation. Jaskier agrees with Yennefer— absolutely, yes, grab him and <em> stop him </em> , because his hands lift up in that same motion. And then they drop. His body goes still, he <em> holds </em> it still as he holds his breath and is surprised to find that he <em> can </em>. </p><p>“When I asked,” Yennefer grits out, and Jaskier suddenly realizes that she’s <em> fighting </em> against something, holding something away, “if you were a danger to Ciri, you said <em> no </em>.” </p><p>Before Jaskier can open his mouth to respond, Triss gasps. “Nilfgaard.” </p><p>“Who else would it be?” Yennefer hisses back as she gives one last final shove into the air, a powerful blast of magic rocketing through the air. The force that held Jaskier vanishes, and Yennefer slumps with the exertion. “They’re using him.”</p><p>“Who’s using me? Did you get rid of them? Is that what this blight is?”</p><p>“It’s likely,” Triss answers, and it’s too vague to be an answer to all of his rapid fire questions. She continues, “the blight has to be Niflgaard. This too, but the purpose isn’t so clear. Why not just kill you with the rest of the humans?”</p><p>“Because I’m close to Ciri?” </p><p>“You are the White Wolf’s bard,” Triss answers as her response, though she doesn’t stop eyeing him warily. </p><p>“But they had no guarantee that we would run into each other,” Geralt says finally, still standing in the broken in doorway. “Why waste such a powerful spell on something that might not even work? On someone who could just die in the middle of the war?” </p><p>There’s no immediate answer to that. Geralt clamps his jaw shut, staring at Jaskier with an expression that he’s never seen before. Yennefer stares with something much more familiar, something akin to distrust, and Triss spends a calm moment assessing him. </p><p>“The only other copies of these books are in Kaer Morhen,” she says quietly. “When we go, we won’t be allowed to bring him.” </p><p>“He’s already a danger,” Yennefer hisses. “If they’ve been in his head, they already know about it. There could be Nilfgaardians on the way <em> here </em> right now. Or on the way <em> there, </em> waiting to intercept us.” And <em> oh </em>, Yennefer had meant it when she said that she didn’t even know where to start. It shows on her face, in the resolution that’s clear there. </p><p>“I sent a message ahead to Vesemir,” Geralt says, strangely not moving any closer, even though he looks like he wants nothing more than to crowd into the room. “That’s about three nights ago. When we met each other again.” </p><p>“And you didn’t think it could be intercepted?” Yennefer asks, incredulous. </p><p>“It was coded, and sent through a mage,” Geralt shoots back. “And even still, it can’t be correctly translated. He knows to expect <em> something </em>, even if it’s more than just us. Nilfgaard can’t bring a sizable army that far north, not more people than we can handle.” </p><p>“Good. Go back to Ciri. Triss, you go with them.” With more than a little hesitation, Geralt leaves Jaskier alone with Yennefer. The room is still hot from the stifled fire, and sour and stale as if the books that he had burned were made of more than just paper. </p><p>“Jaskier,” Yennefer says directly to him. “What is going on?”</p><p>Jaskier is… more than a little tired of that same question. He doesn’t know, has said as much many more times than he cares to count. It doesn’t help that there are apparent gaps in his memory, things that don’t explain why he’d gone tumbling into a ravine on Pegasus’s back, why he’d apparently died alongside his horse and then reappeared back to where he had been. </p><p>“Let me look—” Yennefer asks, just as whatever it is controlling him screams <em> “NO!” </em> Her hands stop on their way to circle his head, eyes wide, and she takes a frightened step back,  then another, and then two more until she’s pressed up against the door, fumbling with the handle and tumbling out into the hall. </p><p>“Yen—” </p><p>“Get away from me!” She shouts, drawing Triss and Geralt’s attention once again. He watches as they appear at the bottom of the stairs, and Geralt has his sliver sword drawn, brandished in that confused manner— </p><p>“Kill him,” she chokes to Geralt, who looks between Yennefer and Jaskier as if they’ve both lost their minds. “Kill him. He’s not alive.” </p><p>At her side, Triss’s eyes widen to the size of plates, throwing her arm between Yennefer and Jaskier. Geralt looks endlessly confused, helplessly caught between sheathing his sword and protecting Yennefer from the imagined threat of Jaskier. </p><p>Jaskier himself doesn’t know what to do. Both sorceresses seem petrified, and after a moment that damning, fearful look dawns across Geralt’s own features. He herds Yennefer and Triss away, putting himself bodily between Jaskier and the rest of the household, snarling up the staircase. </p><p>“You told her you weren’t dangerous.”</p><p>“I’m <em> not </em>,” Jaskier pleads, taking a step down the stairs. He finds Geralt’s sword pointed up at him, halting his progress. “Please, Geralt, I’m not—”</p><p>“You are,” Geralt snarls. “Who did this to you?” </p><p>Jaskier would answer, if only he could find the answer to his missing memories behind his own watering eyes. The expression on Geralt’s face breaks his heart, Yennefer and Triss’s anger and fear doubly so. They’re treating him as if he’s something evil, no better than the monsters that Geralt slays, and even Ciri behind Geralt looks wary, green eyes widening when he takes another step forward. </p><p>Yennefer finally tells him. Either she takes mercy, sees and hears how <em> afraid </em> he is and decides to end this torture. She says, “Jaskier is dead.” Geralt’s grip on his sword grows impossibly tighter. “Someone killed him and brought him back. He’s a Resurrect.” </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Okay Frail ™ Jaskier is over Feral ™ Jaskier’s time is now. I also would like very badly to write something along the lines of <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/15545967">”will he”</a> for this fandom, something really angsty, so there might be even more space between updates because for the first time in years i’ve committed myself to four projects at once </p><p>my hiatus was born from the fact that i was 100% convinced that these first three chapters were hot garbage but after forgetting about this story and then opening it back up ive realized that holding a fanfic to the same standards as everything else is for dummies</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>reuploaded from my main account <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Desertt/pseuds/Desertt">Desertt</a> (despite the reupload i STILL haven't edited so expect to see all kinds of henious mistakes) </p><p> </p><p>  <a href="https://everflightless.tumblr.com/">main tumblr</a></p><p> </p><p><a href="https://anticapitalistthot.tumblr.com/">writing tumblr</a> Come chat!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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